


Bounce

by Rahmi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bureaucracy, Dancing, First Time, Footnotes, M/M, Marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-04
Updated: 2007-09-04
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahmi/pseuds/Rahmi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making an effort is... undignified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seascribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/gifts).



> Hahahah, this assumes that you are willing to believe that Crowley and Aziraphale will get it on at one time or another, because I can't be arsed to write a seduction. Abuse of footnotes.

The strangest thing about making an effort, as it were, is the fact that _Aziraphale_ finds himself more knowledgeable about it than Crowley is. He wonders morosely exactly what kind of angel that makes him, when he knows more about human mating habits than a demon does.   
  
"My dear boy, you _do_ know that they're supposed to... bounce?" he finally asks, almost desperately.  
  
Crowley pauses in the act of walking to him (which, honestly, is what Aziraphale was aiming for; it's _intimidating_ is what it is, to see that, that, that _thing_ pointing towards him like compass north and he'd rather be curled up with a nice pot of tea and an old manuscript) and makes a little inquisitive noise.  
  
"What is?" Crowley answers blankly.  
  
Aziraphale coughs into his fist and then motions towards the rather prominent erection currently... not moving like it should.  
  
"Really? 1" Crowley glances down his body and raises one dark eyebrow. After a second he wiggles the fingers of his right hand in a complicated pattern that would make mortal heads explode; Aziraphale politely looks away and mentally compliments the ficus for how verdant its leaves are.  
  
The ficus, secure2 in just how big and beautiful it is, rustles proudly.  
  
When he glances back at Crowley, he's. Well. He's lifting up onto his toes and dropping down quickly, experimentally. Crowley snickers under his breath when he does, indeed, bounce, but Aziraphale is more morbidly fascinated with the way it's boinging about wildly than with noises Crowley is making.  
  
The demon bounces on his toes again for good measure, before he looks back at Aziraphale. "That's undignified, angel."  
  
Aziraphle looks towards the ficus again. The ficus is very nice, he decides, very nice. "There is no part of, er, making an effort that is _not_ undignified, Crowley."  
  
"Aziraphale."  
  
The ficus was laughing at him, he was sure of it. He'd have to talk to Crowley about its watering schedule. "Hmm...?" He guiltily looks up from miracling the ficus into an, erm, better state of mind and goes very still.  
  
Crowley is stalking him. There's no other word for it and for half a second Aziraphale freezes like any winged thing does when confronted with a happy serpent. Crowley's tongue flickers out, thin and deeply forked, and he smiles, slowly; his yellow eyes slide halfway closed and his pupils expand until they're almost, almost round 3.  
  
It's enough to make an angel shiver. "You're not bouncing," Aziraphale says faintly. His hands reach up to catch at Crowley's waist as soon as he comes within range and Aziraphale spares a nasty thought for body parts that do things without their owners consent4.  
  
The demon tangles his fingers in the collar of Aziraphale's shirt and pulls, lightly. "I don't bounce," Crowley murmurs smugly, "It's not dignified."  
  
Aziraphale finds himself surreptitiously wiggling his fingers to fix his own bouncing problem while Crowley is distracted. After all, it wouldn't do to force Crowley into laughter in the middle of making an effort. It wouldn't do at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 To be fair, it has been rather a long while since Crowley participated in a good old fashion seduction. Back then, everything was done in the dark and he counted himself lucky and successful if he actually managed to find Slot B (or Tab A, as the case sometimes was) without putting out an eye.
> 
> 2 The ficus is, in fact, Crowley's favorite. He's caught it more than once giving some little plant a hard time, whispering about how the demon master is going to turn it into mulch because it's so ugly. He believes in rewarding pre-emptive strikes and so whenever he catches the ficus at it, he gets rid of its slightly less green victim. The ficus, Crowley knows, is his kind of plant.
> 
> 3 Aziraphale can remember a time when Crowley's slitted eyes were the only warning a being got before they suddenly found themselves slowly dying on the ground with venom pumping through their blood and a demon perched nearby, watching avidly, chin resting in palm.
> 
> "I was just testing it out," Crowley muttered sullenly when Aziraphale finally got through the metaphorical red tape of Heaven and was looking into the benefits of a little holy smiting, "I didn't think you'd mind all that much."
> 
> 4 But only one. The rest of his thoughts are too busy gibbering incoherently about how nice Crowley's skin feels and that snake eyes are really very attractive and how flattering was it that Crowley was scenting him?


	2. marijuana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, Aziraphale, and a pot plant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know sometimes. I blame Seaica, as always.

When Crowley invites Aziraphale over for tea, he's got an ulterior motive. He usually does, even if the ulterior motive is wanting a spot of company that's even more pathetic than he is, but this time, it's a doozy of a motive. You see, Crowley has just obtained a sample of his newest oversea venture.1  
  
The cannibis plant sits in the middle of his coffee table.   
  
It spreads its leaves proudly when it notices Crowley looking at it, and if he weren't a little in love with his ficus, he'd put it in the spot of honor under the big window. It looks healthy even after he's plucked a good chunk of its leaves off. That's something he can respect.   
  
Even if the plant acts like a drug addict whenever he threatens it. Crowley could swear it's giggled at him more than once.   
  
Aziraphale brings tea. Crowley sets a huge platter of appetizers on the coffee table, right next to his plant, and the angel politely coughs into his hand. "I don't think we'll need all of that, Crowley," he says. "I've to watch my weight, you know. It would be terrible if I lost this body to hypertension."   
  
"We'll need them," Crowley tells him decisively, and lights up the joint he's rolled ahead of time.   
  
It actually doesn't take much to get Aziraphale to take a hit or two. A little bribery, a little coaxing, and a judicious helping of past history that says he's done something like it before.   
  
It's not long until they're in a discussion over the merits of marijuana.   
  
"Nuh-uh," Aziraphale says. That's how Crowley knows that the plant's actually getting to him; Aziraphale, you see, would never say "Nuh-uh," on a regular day. He's a bore like that. "'s used for pain. To make people feel nice while they're dying. That's one of ours."   
  
He nods firmly to the plant and giggles. "Cannabis, dear boy, is a gift from God."   
  
The plant, Crowley notes, is looking verdant. He shouldn't put it near the ficus.2  
  
Then he remembers that he's supposed to be arguing the point with Aziraphale, maybe even _tempting_ the angel into believing it, and he focuses. A little. The room's swimming in strange colors, at any rate, so he focuses on that. He wasn't aware he had anything in quite that shade of pink lying about.  
  
"No, no," he finally gets out, "See, He made cannabis before there was pain, you know, before the whole lead balloon thing hit the ground," he stops and giggles, because in his head it's suddenly hilarious. "A lead balloon! Do lead balloons pop?"   
  
Aziraphale purses his mouth like the dour nancy he is, so Crowley hands over the joint to make him stop and tries to pick his thread out of the dozen or so he can see dancing across his vision.   
  
He finds it after a second (it's white), and reaches out to pick it up again. "So it's gotta be another test, see? About the righteous and what-not. Good people don't use it. All that recreational stuff, that's our side."  
  
"I fail to see how a little harmless fun would be your side," Aziraphale says primly. It's a little ruined by the joint hanging out of his mouth, but Crowley's not going to point that out. Yet. Maybe later, when he tries to deny being tempted into trying an illegal narcotic. Again.   
  
Crowley flicks his tongue out to taste the air and smiles. "That's just it!" he says, and starts laughing.   
  
The pot plant joins in, the little lush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Crowley has had multiple oversea ventures over the course of time. He's the one who led Columbus to the Americas. He did not, however, plan the clusterfuck that was the liaison between the natives and Europe. He rather liked the natives over there.
> 
> 2 The ficus, he's noticed, is looking a little... pissed, for lack of a better word. He's taken to cooing at it that it's always been his favorite in order to stave off the mysterious demise of his cannabis for as long as possible.


	3. on the head of a pin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discreet, Aziraphale, or there shall be smiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abuse of footnotes and angels trying to dance. Also, gossip!

"Did you hear about that principality, what's his name, Azira-something? Aziraphael, I think it was?"   
  
Gabriel puts down his quill1 and sighs, "Aziraphale. Yes, I heard about him."   
  
"I heard he got called up here for fraternizing with the enemy. Can you imagine that, consorting with demons?"   
  
The other angel rubs his forehead and thinks about strangling gossip hounds. "Demon. It was only the one."   
  
"Yes, but the Serpent! I couldn't have done it." Karoz shudders and rustles his wings dramatically. Gabriel wishes that all the reporter angels had fallen with Lucifer. "Do you think they'll send Tzadriel after him?"   
  
He's got a mountain of paperwork that never seems to get smaller because he's one of the blessed head angels and this little ... isn't helping. "Look, I don't know what you've heard, but Aziraphale is actually still on our payroll, so there isn't actually going to be any angelic smiting by angels. Go find something else to talk about."   
  
Karoz flutters closer instead of away; Gabriel blesses under his breath. "So, you know what went on? I mean, first hand and everything? You should tell me! You don't want everyone getting the wrong impression of poor Aziraphael, do you?"   
  
"Aziraphale," Gabriel corrects absently and rubs the pinions on his left wing, "There isn't much to tell. He came up here to be reprimanded for loitering with demons."   
  
"I heard he does more than loiter, actually," Keroz interupts. He leans very close and does a passable imitation of a human leering, which Gabriel is not thinking about. "I head he made an _effort._ "   
  
They both reflexively look up the shiny gold paved road2 and wince. How anyone, let alone an angel, could do _that_ when they knew God was watching was beyond most angelic knowledge. Sick buggers.   
  
"But he hasn't Fallen?" Keroz continues after a respectful silence.   
  
"No, no, he's still on the payroll." Gabriel holds it up to demonstrate.   
  
"Odd."   
  
Gabriel keeps quiet after that, scritching away with his quill and hoping Keroz gets bored enough to flitter away. He does. Good. Gabriel didn't really want to talk about talking to Aziraphale. He'd gone native, if you asked him, what with the effort and the refusal to stop fraternizing with the enemy.   
  
The angel had declared that, no, dear boy, he wouldn't stop seeing his demon. Gabriel had patiently sat through his explanation of subtly turning the Serpent good again and then raised his eyebrows.   
  
"Err," the other angel had finally said, looking embarrassed.   
  
Gabriel had looked up towards God to be sure, but he hadn't particularly felt like taking out his sword and tossing the angel into hell, so he didn't. "Get out of here," he'd told him, and the angel had complied. "Try to be a little more discreet."   
  
Halfway back down towards Earth, another shape had flown up to meet him. Gabriel had watched as an angel of heaven happily embraced a demon from hell, and then they'd both flailed stupidly as they flew back down.   
  
He'd been informed, by the Metatron, that the flailing was actually what humans referred to as dancing, and that that particular set of flailing motions was the gavotte. He'd been forced to leave a heavenly message scrawled across the wall of Aziraphale's deathtrap of a home3 saying something to the effect of, "That wasn't discreet. Discreet, Aziraphale, or there shall be smiting."   
  
Gabriel makes a note4 near Aziraphale's name in the payroll and goes back to doodling in the margins.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 It should be noted that Gabriel is almost always cranky, having to continually pull feathers from his own wings to make quills.
> 
> 2 Many angels actually go blind in heaven; all of that gold reflects God's blessed light like you wouldn't believe.
> 
> 3 He'd known where the angel actually was, of course. You couldn't hide from another angel. He just hadn't wanted to walk in on what he was fairly sure was going to be two angelic beings making an effort. He shudders just thinking about it.
> 
> God, on the other hand, just lays out the cards in weird, nonsensical, ineffable patterns and smiles in the dark. 
> 
> 4 The note says something to the effect of always knocking before going anywhere where the angel is likely to be with the demon. It also makes mention of making sure no other angel ever gets it into their heads to learn to dance and ends with Gabriel drawing a little figure of an angel flailing dumbly on the head of a pin. It was a spectacularly long note.


End file.
